The Return of the Ring
by Elven Victory
Summary: Set shortly after the ROTK takes place. When the Ring is re-discovered by Frodo, he and the Fellowship must reunite and go on one last quest to bring it to its final resting place - in a world outside their own. No slash. Rating to be safe.
1. The Discovery

The Return of the Ring

Chapter one – The Discovery

By Elven Victory

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Disclaimer – anything you recognize in this story belongs to, of course, J.R.R Tolkien or the corresponding owners and not me. I don't own anything, well, except some of the characters (who were made up by me).  
  
Main characters in this story – The Fellowship of the Ring, Faramir, and some other characters who will be involved during later chapters, such as, Haldir, Elrond, etc, and from Pirates of the Caribbean, Will Turner, Jack Sparrow, and Barbosa.  
  
Author's Note – Yes, yes, I know; it has been put off for a while, yet I never seemed to be happy with the final result of the story. Much has changed in it since the first version, and I would even say that it is less humorous. That, as you may see, is why have taken so long to upload it. I hope you understand.  
  
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Life is a journey. It is a journey between space and time...over the everlasting oceans and the tall mountains, over the paths of evil and of good.  
  
For even though lives do end, the path that is life does not: for it is everlasting.  
  
This is the tale of one thing that was thought to be destroyed, but wasn't: much to the delay and fear to all the races mentioned.  
  
For things we have been done...things that were thought be good for life, but it was not: for it destroyed what hope all races had of a good life.  
  
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Night had fallen on the sea; dark clouds were gathered in the inky, autumn sky, though the few stars that could be seen shone brightly upon the vast amount of water, setting white reflections on the gentle waves as they splashed to and fro.  
  
It was a clear night, at around half past ten, and the silhouette of a white object sailed west into the darkness, rippling the bright, starry images that had been implanted onto the water. Its silvery masts loomed into the sky against the black clouds above, its sails fluttered lightly in the breeze, and its passengers were ignorant to the evil that was drawing closer to their peaceful lives.  
  
As silence grew harder on the Elven Ship, it was suddenly shattered by footsteps on the wooden planks, and if anyone looked closely enough, they could be sure to see two figures, hurrying towards the stern of the vessel. Both shapes were of small size, and both had curly hair that shone in the new light of the silvery moon, which a black cloud had shifted from.  
  
"Three days from the Havens," spoke a hushed voice, and the figure halted at the end of the Ship. It looked as if it was picking up something from the ground, and showing it to its companion. "We may be a little late, but it should still work, if we make haste. Come, Frodo, get the rope ready, and be quick!"  
  
The other figure – Frodo, no doubt – had now taken the rope, and Elven one, no doubt, from his friend and was uncoiling it with great speed, while the speaker seemed to be looking over the edge of the Ship.  
  
"Are you sure we should still go through with this, Bilbo?" asked Frodo, who took glances up to the moon now and then, as if expecting it to suddenly disappear. "Think of what you are leaving behind, probably for good. This is the last chance for you, and me, to live how we have dreamed of living."  
  
But, Bilbo didn't seem to be listening – he still had both arms on the edge of the ship, and he was looking down into the water with a slight smile over his face.  
  
"I long to see it again, my lad. My heart will not allow me to rest until I finally see it once more. Is that rope ready?"  
  
"Yes," replied Frodo, and he gave the uncoiled rope back to Bilbo, who looked upon it for a couple of seconds, in deep thought.  
  
"No, no...I will not regret this," he whispered to himself, and then seemed to let himself go. He made a sudden movement, and flung the line overboard – there was a great splash as it fell into the tranquil water, and the noise seemed to echo around the soundless ocean, and reverberated against the Ship. "And neither will you, my boy!" Bilbo gave a slight chuckle, and smiled.  
  
Frodo felt unsure; was Bilbo's dream of going to the place he spoke of false? Or had he always desired to go there? He had wanted to go to the Undying Lands, and it seemed foolish to leave the chance behind, maybe forever – and on a sudden impulse. It was only when they had first set sail from the Havens that Bilbo actually told Frodo where he wanted to go, and they had spent little more than an hour discussing how they would do it.  
  
"Frodo, my lad! Climb over, and be hasty!" The older hobbit's urgent voice hissed hurriedly, sounding shallow in the night air. He gave Frodo a slight push closer to the edge, and handed him part of the rope. He then leant over and pointed down into the water, which was illuminated by the light of the full moon. "Down there, look!"  
  
The youngest hobbit looked to where his companion was pointing, and drew a sudden breath; there, in the water, being dragged along by the Ship, was a small, wooden rowing boat, that looked hardly large enough for a single hobbit to sit in. The two benches that went across it looked old and worn, with many splinters sticking from it, and the oars were placed rather clumsily on top of these seats. On the outside of the small boat seemed to be a pattern painted of what looked like blood, and the stars above made it shine weakly with a whitish glow.  
  
Before Frodo could say or do anything, however, the other hobbit gave him another push, and he felt himself having to grip the rope firmly to save his immediate fall overboard. He climbed down the line carefully, and the rough fragments of the rope that were visible seemed to be cutting into his hand, burning it as he made his way down.  
  
It didn't take very long for the hobbit to reach the boat; the end of the rope was actually floating in the water, so Frodo had to jump from a height of about two feet to get into the craft. He pulled the rest of the rope into the boat with him, so that Bilbo wouldn't have any difficulty in climbing down.  
  
"Are you ready, Frodo?" asked Bilbo, and the young hobbit had just enough time to give his answer of 'yes' before he felt the rope being grasped firmly, and his companion could then be seen climbing down. He took less time than Frodo, and was able to get into the small boat without any trouble. The line above was pulled hard, and it came hurtling down at them, landing at their feet. Bilbo smiled, and took the two oars hastily.  
  
"We will take it in turns to row, Frodo," he said softly, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "For now, you have a rest while I take my turn. My rowing may be faster than yours, and we have no time to lose in getting away."  
  
Frodo sat down at the edge of the boat obediently, though did not close his eyes. As he felt the boat begin to move gracefully through the silent water, in the opposite direction to what the Ship had been going to, he asked the one thing he had wanted to ask since Bilbo had first brought up the subject of escaping the Ship.  
  
"Where exactly did you say we were going?"  
  
There was silence for a moment; Bilbo was standing up as he rowed with the oars, and seemed to be sniffing the night air, the moon shining behind him. Frodo was then suddenly aware of how old he looked, and how worn his face had grown in the short years that the ring had been gone from his grasp.  
  
"It seems long ago that my path brought me to this place," he began quietly, not looking at Frodo. "It seems so long ago that I am not sure whether it was just in my head, or in my dreams, or for genuine. Maybe it was in my mind, as an image, yet not existent, or maybe I was taken there long ago – but, the one thing I am trying to say, Frodo, is this: I shall never rest until I see this place for real, and I mean to see it exactly how I saw it. Do you understand my need?" He fell silent, and Frodo then felt a sudden thought strike him as he took in his relative's words – 'Maybe it was in my mind, as an image, yet not existent'. He remembered what the Hobbiton folk used to say about Bilbo long ago...that he was going mad. It was an awful thought, but what if it was true? What if Bilbo had finally gone, and was now going to row Frodo all over the seas, forever more, but without a trace of hope for this place they were expecting to go to?  
  
"Uncle, how long do you propose it should take to find it?"  
  
"It will take as long as it should. Do you understand, Frodo?"  
  
"Yes..." the young hobbit said at last, though he really felt, all of a sudden, alone – he had seen Bilbo change over the past few days, but had put it down to the fact that he wanted to leave Middle-Earth, and was happy to see new lands. Now, the Ringbearer had left his life behind, originally for the better, but now – now what was going to become of him?  
  
He looked over the rower's shoulder, and saw the shape of the White Ship sailing away into the darkness. The passengers on board were probably drinking wine, and laughing merrily, without a thought for the two stranded hobbits sailing towards the unknown. To Frodo, the vessel seemed far away now, and he felt sadness inside of him as he thought of the lavish lifestyle that he had just left behind – the home in the Undying Lands, with the Elves. But, alas – he would now have to forget it, and row in the boat with his cousin for the rest of their lives, until they both starved, or died from thirst.  
  
But, there was still hope. They were now heading in the direction of the Grey Havens – it would take three days to reach it, maybe a little more, yet it would offer a place of docking for the boat. Perhaps Frodo could encourage Bilbo to stop there, and then give him something to help him? Maybe they could even go back to the Shire, for now, there was no hope in going to the Undying Lands. There, at least Bilbo would be safe from this madness.  
  
"I did not bring food or water, Bilbo," said Frodo quietly, as he turned his gaze to the other hobbit, who looked far away and distant. "Have you any? We should want something to eat and drink when daybreak comes, I imagine."  
  
Again, it took a stretched time for the old hobbit to answer, though he did so eventually, with a strange glint in his eyes:  
  
"We may have, or we may not. Stand on your feet, Frodo, and search for some, before it is forgotten."  
  
Frodo felt even more confused, and alone - though he did stand up from the small plank of wood he had been sitting on, and immediately tripped on something below him.  
  
Bilbo laughed quietly.  
  
"Look!" he whispered, in a mysterious tone. Then he averted his gaze back up to the sky above, still rowing the boat. Frodo looked down, and saw that he had tripped on some sort of hump on the base of the boat, which seemed to be a kind of trap door. Bending down, he pulled it open, and it revealed a small compartment in the boat – maybe twenty five centimetres in length and fourteen in depth – with a water bag in it, and some lembas bread. It was queer how it could fit in such a space. But still, Frodo wondered if it would last three days back to the Havens. The sea seemed to make you feel hungrier and thirstier than you would usually.  
  
"Would there be enough cause to have water now?" asked the young hobbit, as he had a sudden thirst to drink some water out of the water bag.  
  
"Why not?" Bilbo asked in a whisper. His companion then brought out the water skin, opened it, and took a large draught from it. It tasted sweet and cool on his tongue, almost like river-water from the cold mountains on a hot summer's day. The older hobbit laughed merrily at seeing this, and spoke something quick and humorous in a different language to himself. Frodo felt encouraged by it, and took yet another mouthful of the sweet water, though it no longer tasted sweet – now, it seemed bitter, and warm, like still water from a humid, hot cave.  
  
The older hobbit laughed harder, and spoke in a quick, hushed voice:  
  
"Sweet and warm water, from great heights to low – yet if there is no water, where are you to go?" Frodo felt a dizziness come over him. The stars were now spinning around him, and the horizon in front suddenly grew close and long: the Undying Lands were abruptly in view, with Middle-Earth, mountains and all, behind, yet they seemed still far off, like something in a dream. The sea between the two worlds seemed within a short walking distance – it looked as if one was watching it from above. The moon was suddenly very bright, and close, to Frodo, and it seemed to be drawing closer...yes, it must have been coming closer, like a comet crashing into the earth at full speed, yet no matter how close it drew, it did not touch the sea...  
  
The last thing Frodo remembered was his heart in his mouth, feeling his head crash against the side of the boat, and the amused laughter of Bilbo Baggins.  
  
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When Frodo awoke, all he could see for a minute was dark clouds overhead, though they were not grey or white – they were dark red, like the colour of blood, and there seemed to be the outline of a face in it, the great, staring eyes looking straight at him.  
  
The young hobbit closed his eyes again, and opened them, expecting to see the same sight again – but he didn't: instead, the sky above was overcast, though the clouds were white. He felt weak at the limbs, and his skin seemed cold and soaked with water. What had happened?  
  
It didn't feel as if he was still moving in the graceful sway of the boat; there seemed to a rock of some kind sticking into his back, and a pain like stabbing he could feel in the back of his neck. Then, there was a sound of flowing, or rather rushing, water nearby, like a fast moving river...and was that the noise of a waterfall?  
  
Frodo tried to move over, yet as soon as he thought about it, he seemed to collapse further into the ground. At last, gathering all his strength, and with a sudden force from his frail limbs, he was able to turn his entire body over, with difficulty. There he lay, now gasping for breath, on the cold, muddy riverbank that he had been pushed onto.  
  
He did not know how long he lay there for; his memory felt lost, and he only had a slight inkling of the sky growing dark, and then light again. As time grew, it seemed to happen more often, and the dark hours of night were, to him, only a shadow in the back of his mind that he could not distinguish. Then, when the midday sun came, it warmed his chilled bones with the little warmth it had left, and brought life to him, and he began to remember what had happened, even though his head was still filled with confusion. Even though his limbs felt less chilled as time wore on, he was aware of feeling weaker, and one morning when he awoke he could just see Death lying next to him, ready to take the hobbit when he was unwary. Frodo felt a great darkness over him then, and shut his eyes with great haste in anxiety.  
  
He did not know how long he had closed his eyes for, though he knew it seemed like a great time. No sun seemed to come to warm his limbs, though he could still see Death through his closed eyelids, approaching him every day.  
  
Then, as Frodo was losing all hope of ever waking, he suddenly felt warmth spread through him, and he could see a picture in the back of his mind of the Shire during a sweet, perfect summer, when the green leaves on the trees swayed gracefully, and the hobbits were laughing joyfully – he felt a warmth in his heart, and it spread through him, recovering his cold limbs and his frozen memory. Through his closed eyelids, he saw that the dark shadow of Death had fled, and was gone.  
  
Frodo finally awoke slowly, with the picture of the Shire now gone, but not forgotten. What a glorious sight greeted his weary eyes as he looked upon it! The golden sun was rising over the flourishing hill on the horizon, and its young rays shone on the ground near Frodo, making the small puddles of water in the mud glimmer.  
  
The hobbit suddenly felt life in him again, and he took bravery in raising his arm – to find that he could lift it with effortlessness. No, he no longer felt weak, but full of spirit and merriment. He rolled over, and slowly sat up on the wet dirt beneath him, so he could finally see the river that he had heard all those days ago.  
  
It was quite a wide river, which shone in the early sunshine. Large rocks and boulders were firmly planted in the soil under the water, creating small waves as the liquid rolled up onto them. The waterway seemed to go on, and it disappeared behind a hill not far away, where the sound of a waterfall was coming from.  
  
Frodo rose and stood up, though he stumbled slightly as he did so, for his knees still felt a little weak – he recovered soon enough, and walked over to the edge of the river, where the cool water rolled up onto his bare feet. He bent down, and sat on the riverbank itself. The liquid seemed beautiful, and good enough to drink.  
  
In fact, as Frodo gazed into the water, he felt his hand trailing down to scoop some of it up, and when he was aware of this, he threw the fluid over his sore and dirty face. It felt cool and refreshing, so he took another handful, and this time rubbed it onto his feet.  
  
He sat there for what must have been quarter of an hour, throwing water onto his recovering limbs, and feeling his head fill with joy, when he saw something he had not yet noticed in the swirling liquid – a large, golden fish. Its golden fins sparkled in the early, growing sunshine, and it seemed to float without moving, or swimming away in terror. It looked beautiful. Frodo immediately thought of food, and he had an idea that he could catch the fish, and cook it over a blazing fire. The idea came over him suddenly – he must catch that fish, no matter what the cost.  
  
Frodo sat up, and put a foot down heavily in the water, sending ripples to the animal – it bolted away quickly, and the hobbit went in pursuit of it. Up, up, up the river he ran, towards the hills in the distance. The sun was now no longer in front of him, but to his right. The fish swam on hurriedly, its golden fins glimmering, and Frodo felt even more need to catch it. He ran round where the river bent behind the hill, and stopped dead at the waterfall, which was of no considerable height. He could have easily jumped down it, yet that was not the thing worrying him: the fish had gone, even though he had kept his keen eyes on it for the entire chase. How could something so bright just disappear, like a dream in the dark night?  
  
In anxiety, Frodo jumped down the waterfall, which was only around four foot in height. He landed in the swirling water below, just next to one large rock under the falling fluid, and sat down on the riverbank miserably, pondering over his loss. Behind him was a large group of trees, shrouded in shadow, and the hobbit thought of the strange feeling that had just overtaken him – he felt sure that he had sensed it before.  
  
As he gazed at the trees, however, his eyes were suddenly diverted back to the river, where he thought he had heard some sort of clatter of metal, mingling with the sound of the fall of water. It was not very loud, but enough to catch his attention.  
  
Then, as he was inspecting the water from his sitting place, he noticed something had definitely on been there before. But, was it? No, surely not.  
  
But then, he saw it again. Frodo sat up in a slight hurry, and made his way towards the rock under the waterfall. What he had seen was gone, so he took a step back.  
  
Wait... there is was again. The hobbit now strode through the water and over to the waterfall, where he bent down and inspected the large, white-coloured boulder. This time, he knew his eyes had not deceived him – the glimmer of bright gold that he had seen was existent, though it was not the fish he had first thought it to be.  
  
Frodo lifted the golden article out of the water, and examined it. There was no doubt that it was some sort of gold ring, as smooth as silk, and as bright as the sun. It was truly a very precious thing...  
  
There was that thing again, in Frodo's mind. He felt that, for no apparent reason, he had to put on this ring, and not doing so was not an option. He was not aware of the golden thing drawing closer to his outstretched finger, nor of the water that was now soaking through his already wet clothes.  
  
Before Frodo could fit the ring on, however, something interrupted his thoughts: a sudden, loud hiss from somewhere behind him. He was thrown out of the trance, stood upright, and looked towards the trees that he had been looking at earlier.  
  
There was something different about it now. Was that a figure, a small figure, drawing back into the shadows of the darkened trees with a gleam in it's wicked eyes shining out through the darkness? And was that, by any chance, the sound of a twig breaking on a forest floor, as if someone, or rather something, had stepped on it carelessly? What Frodo thought to be a figure seemed to make a sudden movement; the hobbit rubbed his eyes, took a second look, and the thing was gone.  
  
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Frodo had been so influenced by recovering, the river, the fish and the ring that he had not thought about Bilbo, or the Grey Havens. It suddenly seemed a long time ago that he was sitting in the boat, and talking to his cousin.  
  
After the incident with the figure, the hobbit had followed the river downstream, and it seemed to turn west after a while. It was late afternoon; Frodo had noticed the clouds gather overhead, showing sure signs of heavy rain. He had ignored it at first, but made shelter under a canopy of trees near the riverside when the first few drops of water hit him. After all, he was yearning for a short rest.  
  
The ring was still with him; he had not the heart to let it go, somehow. As he set down on the ground, he realised how lonely he suddenly was. He had no food, no inkling of where he was, and felt as if he hadn't seen a single person for years. His heart suddenly felt empty.  
  
Frodo then noticed an odd thing as he looked about him; the ground he was sitting on was bare, though the trees above were covered with lush, dark leaves. The rain, he had noticed, was warm, not cold, as should be in winter. To the hobbit's thoughts, it had to be summer.  
  
Yet, the White Ship had left in autumn, and Frodo had only been asleep for a couple of days, hadn't he?  
  
Seeing that the rain was thinning out, the hobbit sat up from the woodland ground, and set off again down the river, which became wider and rougher as he progressed. The scenery around him changed; no longer were mountains in view, but a wide expanse of fertile land all around.  
  
Still, the day wore on, and soon enough, Frodo felt an urge to sleep. It was getting dark now, yet shapes could be seen clearly all around, and it wasn't long before the hobbit noticed a different sort of shape on the riverbank to what he had been used to.  
  
He approached it warily, and in the setting sun, could still make out what it was. It looked like the wreck of a small, wooden rowing boat, and the oars were lying on the ground some way off, severed in two.  
  
And what was this on the riverbank? There was an empty water skin, and a soggy bit of lembas bread lying there in a pathetic way.  
  
Frodo didn't need to think twice; this boat wasn't just any old boat – it was their boat – Bilbo's boat. But, what had happened to him?  
  
Then, the hobbit thought he heard a distant voice through the trees. It sounded familiar...too familiar to the hobbit's ears – but he shook his head and turned away, gazing out at the river with a hard face.  
  
He did not notice the thing crawl back into the trees as silently as the grave, nor hear the whispered words of "My preciousss" echo throughout the night.  
  
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	2. Alone No More

The Return of the Ring

Chapter two – Alone No More

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Night had fallen at last; the silvery moon now hung in the darkened sky, like a watchful, shining eye, and it illuminated a small figure huddled over a bright campfire on the riverbank, where the swift river flowed near.

It was Frodo who was sitting over the campfire, pondering over his great loss. He did not need to be told what had become of Bilbo: from what the hobbit's heart was telling him, whatever had happened, it could not be good.

Frodo had walked aimlessly for some miles, being too caught up in himself to worry about eating. He had drunk from the river, and the water seemed refreshing, though it did not pull him away from his heavy thoughts. It was one late in the morning when he finally came to rest at the riverbank, though he could not sleep when he had lain upon the wet mud.

So now, an hour later, he was huddled over the campfire that he had clumsily made, close to collapsing of exhaustion from his walk. But, he was not only sitting on the ground: if anyone looked close enough, they could see that he was slowly turning a certain gold ring in his forefingers, staring at it with all interest. He had certainly not let that slip from his mind, especially since he had an odd feeling that someone was following him.

It was then, as he was doing nothing more than staring at his prize, that a slight wind picked up suddenly; it made the bright fire flicker slightly, for only a second, and it made the trees surrounding him wave their branches in the dark night, creating the sound of hundreds of rustling leaves, like the sound of a strong gale down a narrow alleyway. Even the trees, then, which looked so friendly and harmless in the day, seemed like giant figures, looming up out of the ground, shaking their branches like enormous fists. The river shone in the moonlight, and it seemed as if shadows of faces were looking up at Frodo through the water.

And then, as the hobbit looked around wildly, it seemed as if, for only a flash, that he saw two, large, lights under an unusually thick tree, though they seemed to be staring straight at him – then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably; he looked down at his gleaming ring, that he had not forgotten about, and, without hesitation, slid it quickly into his waistcoat pocket. Could it be, though he had not wanted to believe it, that someone was truly following him? He soon brought to mind a similar incident on his first day of waking from his long sleep, when he had seen something move back into the trees: a figure, of some kind.

But then, there were other things to think about – feeling sleep now overwhelm him, Frodo laid down upon the ground, shut his eyes, and drifted off into a deep slumber almost immediately, forgetting about the fire that was now burning low.

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Thud.

Thud.

The sound of light footsteps came to Frodo's half-unconscious mind, and there seemed to be a soft hiss coming from somewhere in front of him, followed by a far-off yell. A thing light and speedy shot past the hobbit, blowing his hair slightly, and he heard something pierce the ground about five centimetres away from his nose. He opened his eyes slowly, and, through a slightly obscured view, he could see a stick of some sort embedded into the mud near him, though it was all very hazy. Though, anyone could see that it was daylight.

"Captain!" called out a far-off voice. "Captain, that is a traveller I see, lying upon the cold ground!"

Frodo, still feeling half-asleep, looked closer at the stick in front of him and realised, to his slight horror, that it wasn't a stick, but an arrow.

"I see him, though at first I mistook it for a rock of some kind! Would you believe him to know anything of our creature-friend?" asked a voice, which also seemed to be quite far away.

There was talking from somewhere, and Frodo opened his eyes the wider – footsteps were now, no doubt, coming towards him. But then, they stopped, and the hobbit, now feeling quite awake, took no time in bolting upright from his lying position, and running off into the trees not far away. He thought that they were coming to steal his ring, which he had brought to mind as soon as he had woken.

He did not squander his time in turning to look at the two men behind him, who were dressed in fine cloaks with hoods, quivers on their backs, and a bow each at their side. Though, his sudden movement caught their attention, and with a cry, they chased after him into the darkness of the trees.

"Come back to us!" the first man called, stopping suddenly in a clearing. His voice sounded strong and heroic, and dark hair fell loosely over his shoulders. "We would not hurt you, unless you are a servant of some evil. Or, is that what you might be? Is that why you run from us?"

Frodo had, by this time, stopped running, and was in the view of the speaker, who now appeared to be approaching him. Making sure that the ring was safe in his pocket, Frodo turned and met the man's gaze.

"What would you do?" the hobbit questioned, though before anyone had a chance to answer, he felt something heavy being thrown over his head, and his vision was suddenly obscured by blackness.

"Do not fear us, little one," came a soft voice from behind Frodo. "We are nothing but warriors of Gondor: of this land you walk on. We would not bring harm to you, unless you have harm in mind for us?"

"There –" began Frodo, but the voice behind him made a hissing noise to silence him.

"Listen!"

No sound was heard for a minute; only the calm breeze blowing throughout the small wood, and the heavy breathing of the men. But then…then came a new sound – a quiet sound – was that footsteps? Not Men's footsteps: they were far too light for that.

"That creature," whispered the man in front of Frodo, who had originally chased him. "That creature lurks in these woods: what has the little one to do with it?"

"We shall see," said the man behind the hobbit. He sounded young – very young, in fact. "We shall see once we reach our homeland. Come! Do not be afraid, little one: our aim is not to hunt the innocent, but to hunt those who endanger the innocent. If you are not in league with this creature, than you shall be released, for that is what our old captain would have required."

By this time, Frodo had a mixed array of thoughts in his now-tired mind; what was the creature that these men spoke of? Who, exactly, were these men? If he had heard these people correctly, what was he doing in Gondor?

But, before he could reach any conclusion, the man behind him gave him a slight push, and began leading him through the small wood.

The hobbit felt his feet turn left on the woodland path…then right…his toe was stubbed against a small rock sticking out of the ground, yet the men did not remove the blindfold. Strange noises echoed throughout the trees; it seemed to Frodo as if he was walking towards his death. Then, all would fall silent, and the only sound was the heavy tread of the warriors in front and behind him.

Finally, as they reached the end of the trees, the hobbit could see the sudden brightness of the sun that filtered through the dark cloth in front of his eyes. The three of them halted, and as Frodo listened, he realised that the man with the dark hair was actually talking.

"Aganzîr, will the others be joining us?" he asked, and the man behind the hobbit – Aganzîr – then spoke.

"No; their journey with us did not continue. They headed West, to Minas Tirith, for an intruder was seen attempting to breach the gates."

"An intruder?" asked the first man, though no more was said, and Frodo followed without a word. He guessed the two warriors were inexperienced.

It seemed as if they wandered for many miles; rarely they stopped, even when the dark sheet of night fell upon them. The hobbit grew tired; though he seemed always to be tired. He could have lain there then, on the cold ground, and huddled up, never to be disturbed, reliving the only memories he had left. But even they seemed to be fading.

Frodo saw the sun rise twice, and the moon once, before they finally reached an area where habitation seemed possible – and the two men saw this as luck, for they had eaten the last of their food. A day and night they stayed there, and the villagers showed them much courtesy, for not only did they give them water and food, but horses and information on how distant they were from Minas Tirith.

On their journey they continued, their horses being dark fragments against a sea of baron, dusty land. They passed over the Great River and left the animals to return home. They walked…would they ever stop? It seemed so long ago that they set out; the hobbit wished he had been allowed to remain on the riverbank…his pace began to slacken…his mind began to drift…

"Come on, you!" said the man whose name was Aganzîr. He gave the 'prisoner' a push, and began to trudge along behind him.

The other was a little way ahead of them, standing on the brow of the hill they were climbing. Why had he stopped? There was no time to watch the scenery: they had walking to do.

"Why do you wait like that, Indilhêr?" asked the walking man impatiently, but now they too had reached the top of the slope, and he finished and stood quite motionless, staring at the sight that greeted them beyond.

Minas Tirith – no time could seem to wreck the perfection of those City walls. No creature, living or dead, could spoil her. She was as she had always been: tall, proud and magnificent, and there she stood, the spring sun beating down on her from above, the dust-ridden plains stretching out to greet the three travellers.

Indilhêr grasped Frodo's shoulder firmly and together they began to walk towards the great doors of the City, Aganzîr following in their wake reluctantly.

All the while they walked the Ringbearer kept his eyes on the building at the top of the City, all the while he thought of what he would say to King Elessar. Would the King of Gondor be happy to see him? Or would he be angry, perhaps, that he had come at such short notice?

But now it was too late to think; already they had reached the giant doors of the palace, and they passed through into the home of the King beyond, mere shadows in a baron castle. Frodo's cautious footing made no noise, yet the two men either side of him trudged along, they faces filled with boredom, as if their hostage was 'just another one' to be brought to the City; another meaningless traveller.

And then they halted, for they had come to the tall door of polished metal, and one of the men knocked twice upon it, his face for some reason now eager, excited. The way was suddenly thrown open to them, and Frodo was led into the Hall, though his eyes were not set on the newly-placed tapestries on the walls, nor on the King himself; rather, on the figure clad in brown which stood in the centre of the room, motionless.

The King looked up, and for a second the hobbit felt relief flood over him – there was Aragorn, unchanged, a smile beginning to play across his lips at the sight of his halfling friend. His robes were in many kingly colours and layers, and a golden crown was set upon his head, framing his aging face. He hardly glanced at the two warriors.

" My friend?" exclaimed Aragorn, his voice hardly a whisper. "My companion? It cannot be!"

The brown figure, once unmoving, silent, suddenly turned and looked at the hobbit, and though Frodo thought him familiar he could not name him – his hood threw shadows over his face, but two bright eyes shone out and pierced the darkness of the room. He said nothing.

"My Lord," began one of the men, looking at Frodo in sudden wonder as he remembered the name, "you know this boy?"

"I do, Indilhêr," replied Elessar, and he smiled. "But, a boy? Nay. There stands Frodo, son of Drogo, halfling from the North. Release him! Surely you know of the tale of the War of the Ring?"

"Indeed, my Lord; I have been told many tales of the War of the Ring – many, yet in each of them I have been told that the hero of the story sailed over the Western Sea and was never seen again."

A great silence fell upon them; Frodo shifted on the spot uncomfortably. He looked up at the man who had spoken – the one he had thought sounded young on their first meeting – and realised how youthful he looked: he must only have been sixteen years old at the most.

"What you say is true, Indilhêr…" said Aragorn at length, a curious look in his eyes. "I was told of his going, but I had quite forgotten. But let us not speak of it! This halfling deserves great hospitality from us. He had travelled far in uncertain hands, I deem, and it is no less than a miracle that he is safe and well. Come, tell me how you found him."

And so, the men began an account of how they found the hobbit; how they had gone hunting in South Gondor, and they had stumbled upon the creature who they had attempted to shoot. But, Frodo did not listen; he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. Still, the brown-clad figure stared at the halfling, though no one seemed to notice him – he had not yet been acknowledged. Such keen, bright eyes he had! A strand of hair fell in front of his face; he brushed it away with an absent mind. Suddenly, he looked away.

"…but not only was he in South Gondor, my Lord, he was also sleeping with the shadow of the Nameless Land over his very head…"

Frodo came back again, from his thoughts. He hadn't realised the men were speaking about him, telling Elessar how he had been found. He didn't want them to tell him.

"That troubles me little," said the King, though a slight frown played across his brow. "The place you call the Nameless Land now bears small meaning. Some may go so far as to call it dead; a land of old stories, waiting to be told, but where evil has been vanquished, and no longer exists. But those people are young – they understand not as we do."

Indilhêr took a glance towards Frodo; gone was the wonder in his eyes: he was again a soldier of Minas Tirith, a guardian of the City.

"Might we have your leave then, my Lord?" he asked, seeming to be suddenly aware of the man clad in brown looking at him intently with keen eyes. "We see you already have company, and our City needs more support."

"So be it," said Aragorn. "Go; you have my leave. But leave Mr Baggins here; I must speak with him."

The two men bowed low and exited the Hall. The King beckoned for Frodo to come nearer, a slight smile playing across his lips.

"My friend!" spoke he, a strange, almost confused, tone to his voice. "My heart is light at seeing your face again and yet you look grave. Does something trouble you? I trust those two men of the City treated you well?"

As he walked forwards and saw the man upon the throne more clearly, the halfling suddenly saw how wise and kingly Aragorn looked now; it reminded him of the tales of the bygone Kings that once were, and for a second Frodo imagined he was looking upon Isildur himself, home after cutting the Ring from Sauron's hand, laughing, perhaps, with his men and eating merrily. But suddenly he was back again, and he stood before Elessar with a strange expression, no more thought penetrating his injured mind.

"They treated me well enough," he replied at length. "But who were they?"

"Only rangers of Gondor," said Aragorn. "The younger one I do not fully trust, though Aganzîr is wiser and was made Captain of the Rangers by myself, not long ago. He has made for a good replacement."

"Replacement?"

"Yes; he took over from Lord Faramir."

"But what became of Lord Faramir?" asked the man clad in brown, a mysterious tone to his voice. Elessar took a glance towards him, and spoke again:

"Indeed: that is what we all ask. None know what became of him. Twelve years ago he vanished from his home across the Anduin, and he left nothing but a dust to settle in his wake. His wife still mourns for him… and her son, for he vanished not long after his father. It is said by the younger generation of the City that he was driven mad as Lord Denethor was, and so plunged himself into the Southern Seas; others say he fled to join his brother in death; and some even dare to say that he became tired of Gondor and so journeyed to the North to live with his halfling friends."

"And you?" questioned the stranger.

"I have my own beliefs," said Aragorn. "Of which, I shall keep to myself. Frodo, ask no more of Lord Faramir."

The halfling looked to one of the many statues in the Hall, his eyes filled with a faraway gaze.

"This is grievous news indeed," he said. "I believe he was a good captain, and if it had not been for him I would soon have perished. How I shall miss him!" And he sighed deeply. "I would have liked to see him one more time." He took a step towards the brown-clad man, and suddenly he tripped, as if his feet could not carry him properly.

"Frodo?" asked the King, a look of concern suddenly passing over his face. "Are you well?"

"Perhaps he is weary," the stranger said, and his eyes seemed to glint under the hood's shadow even more than they had done before. "He does not know yet who I am: it is tiring work speaking to an unknown man." The halfling looked at him steadily, and they stared at one another, lost in a strange moment of sudden familiarity.

"This is a companion of mine, Frodo," came Aragorn's voice, and the feeling vanished, lost to another time, another world. "He travels here with tidings."

"Strange tidings indeed," replied the stranger, and he seemed to look away, but not to the King: rather, to the Steward's chair. "I have travelled far to bring them, but you may say they are meaningless and dwell upon a man's word. Or, you may say they have a great truth in them: so great as to save many things from needless destruction. But let us not speak of that now."

"Nay," replied the King. "But any tidings brought are heeded."

"Your words comfort me, then. Might I have your leave, also, my Lord?" asked the other man. "I would advise you time with your companion. Perhaps we will speak more in depth in short time, if you wish it?" He again took another glance towards Frodo; a glance of warning, almost.

"That I will turn my attention too. Yes, friend, you have my leave, but I trust you will eat and drink with us, still?"

"If I am still welcome, your Majesty. Very well; good-bye!" And he bowed, turned, and exited through the door, but as he did so Frodo caught a glimpse of his face as the hood was blown back slightly, and he was reminded of someone in the past. He looked at Aragorn, but was spared the difficulty of beginning the conversation.

"You feel you have seen him before, I deem?" he asked, but without waiting for an answer. "Perhaps you will soon come to understand him and his reason for being here. But, come! It has been too long since our last meeting, and I was wrong in believing you to be far away now. I shall not hinder you for long."

When seating was brought in and wine and food were given to Frodo, he felt his heart lighter, and began his account of his recent past, at Elessar's bidding. He explained Bilbo, just a few hours after they had set sail from the Havens, telling Frodo of where his heart longed to go, and how they had 'escaped' on that late night, and the rowing boat, and the older hobbit's sudden, strange attitude that did not cease. Frodo talked about the water he drunk – how it was sweet tasting at first, and then stagnant, and how it made his head swim and his vision different. Aragorn listened with great interest, nodding his head in some places, frowning in others, though he looked almost concerned when the hobbit finished and took a draught of wine.

"Ah, poor old Bilbo," he said at length. "I wonder what has become of him now. But, it seems almost as I had feared: That some strange new evil has awoken, somewhere. How, I do not know, and I am not even sure that the wisest would know, if they were here." He looked at Frodo with a keen, stern glance, as if he suspected something, and the hobbit ran a hand over the pocket where the Ring lay hidden, checking its presence. But the expression on the King's face was gone, and with it, the curiosity. He continued. "It seems strange that you should be brought here, and though we are glad of visits from companions, old or new, it is not entirely fortunate. But these things can be overcome; they are but small hindrances in a world of misgiving."

"Aragorn," said Frodo, "I do not understand. What has happened? You speak of new evil arising; I feel there is nothing to doubt."

"Nay, none outside the borders of our own land would suspect anything, and in your little land in the North, the world is as merry as ever. But," and here he fell quite silent, as if listening, "it must be known to my people that something seems to be awakening, somewhere, and I do not feel it is good or will help Gondor in any way.

Eighteen days ago, I was returning from a visit to Rohan on horseback with a host of my men, and I suspected little of any evil then. We travelled by day, and slept by night, and on our route we passed over the Entwash and so by Cair Andros.

On one night, we slept near the Great River, and I did not sleep as the others did by some choice, which was fortunate for me. And then I remember sometime during the Late Hour a terrible shriek came from somewhere yonder East, and when I looked, to my dismay I felt sure I saw a great red smoke or flame shoot up into the sky, and suddenly it was gone. No trace of it was left behind. My men had been awoken by it, but they had seen nothing.

And now I believe a thing is stirring again in the Shadow Land of Mordor. Other strange things have happened besides my own account, but we have little time for pondering, if my beliefs are true. I feel the strange feeling of evil when I look to the East of our own lands, a growing sense of fear: peace in the City will no longer reside here in short time, I deem.

Frodo, has your own tale come to an end?"

This statement seemed to take the halfling by slight surprise, and he was not prepared to answer. How could he tell Aragorn, so soon into their meeting, that he had re-discovered the Ring of Power? He said the first thing that reached his mind:

"Yes, my Lord. Perhaps there are small details I did not include, but I have finished anyhow." But Aragorn's face was suddenly solemn and curious, his eyes filled with a slight sense of disbelief.

"Very well, Frodo, my companion of old. But let it be known to you and all my people that the unity of the Fellowship still holds strong, even if I am King of Gondor."

The halfling looked to the platter before him and said nothing.

"But, time presses. You are weary, no doubt, and I will question you no more. Perhaps tomorrow your heart will be lighter, and only then will I ask everything of your journey, including _every_ small detail that you say you may have left. But until then: rest! I have not looked on you for many a year: there is no need to question you wholly, not now, so soon after our reunion."

Frodo looked up and smiled.

"It seems like many a year, Lord Aragorn, though it is only two or three years at the most since I last set my foot in this City."

A sudden frown played across the King's brow: his hobbit companion must have been very tired indeed, and perhaps unwell. He managed a warm smile, and then beckoned for his friend to leave.

"May a peaceful sleep come to you," he said, and with a bow Frodo turned and left the room, just as the brown-clad man had done so earlier that afternoon.

And thus, the King of Gondor gathered his robes of many colours and stood up from his chair with little effort; his hand gently scratched his crinkled brow as he watched the doors of the Hall close, and his mind was awake with many strange thoughts – one of which being that the young hobbit did not seem to realise that five years and a decade had passed since their last meeting.

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	3. A Shadow Unveiled

The Return of the Ring

Chapter three – A Shadow Unveiled

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Frodo awoke with a start. His skin felt cold and clammy; silvery light shone through the uncovered windows and onto his ruffled blankets. Shadows, grey and ghostly, were thrown about the room: onto the floor, against the walls, upon the decorated ceiling. The door of the guest bedroom was ajar, and a cool draft seemed to blow into the room from the stone passage beyond, and the hobbit seemed to shiver with a sudden coldness. He sat up in his bed and wrapped his arms round him for comfort, and he turned his attention to the windows again. It was the third night of his stay at Minas Tirith.

It was mid-night, and the sky was as dark as ebony ink spilled across white satin now, for the moon had vanished behind inky clouds. Silent it was; so changed from the daytime, when the sounds of the street flowed through the castle on the wind, and the sun glittered over the City with the warmth of spring. Frodo looked away from the windows, and turned his gaze to the stone floor, and then, for some strange feeling inside of him, to the door again.

To him, it seemed strange that it should be open at all; he checked it every night before he went to sleep to see that it was firmly closed. The draft blowing into the room was kept to a minimum; something so small could never have opened a door so heavy. The hobbit thought of the thing he had seen at the River: the thing that had crept back into the bushes so softly, with the two round eyes like lamps. Could it be that it had followed him here, to Minas Tirith, with the two men? The clouds must have shifted outside: silvery moonlight flooded into the room again, and shone upon the place like dazzling lights. Frodo brought himself out of his thoughts; he tilted his head to a different angle to see beyond the door.

And suddenly a shadow was there, framed against the corridor's wall, frozen, a slender hand clutching what appeared to be a smooth orb. A long arm was reaching out towards the entrance of the room, but now it did not move; it was motionless, transparent and dark. Then, with the swiftness of a cat in pursuit of prey, the shadow fled – and was gone.

But no sound of hurried footsteps came and died away; no cloak rustled against the wall. It was a heavy deafness upon the hobbit's ears. All was still and silent.

What else was there to do? Frodo's feet touched the floor with as much sound as a feather would have done, and lightly he sprang away from his bed, and towards the doorway. He looked out into the corridor, and he thought whether he was dreaming or not. Now there was no sign of a creature, or a transparent shadow clutching a smooth orb, either way he looked. But, even so, it would be impossible to go back to sleep now, when his mind lingered only on what he had seen only seconds ago.

He took a quick glance back to the windows behind him; the moon was about to vanish behind another cloud, and soon, all light that flooded onto him now would be gone - but that did not trouble him. The halfling took a step into the passageway and turned left: he felt sure the shadow had fled that way.

At first, he saw nothing ahead of him, and he could feel the cold stone touch his feet. It seemed to awaken him even more; no longer did everything seem so dream-like. Then, as if a dark shadow had come and gone, he could see the outline of the continuing corridor, and this pleased him, and his pace began to increase. Then, he turned a corner, and –

Another passage stood before him, silent, still: a twin of the one he had just been walking down. But Frodo felt he was going the right way, and so, he took a step forwards into the lighter, airier corridor, where he hoped to find the 'intruder'. And he walked on, and turned into another passage soon after, and then another…

How long he walked, he did not know. His path led him down many corridors, some familiar, some not: sometimes he felt he had passed things already. An hour must have gone by before he came to several slumbering guards, and a large set of doors. Thinking he had not yet seen these, Frodo pulled one of them open, and suddenly a cool breeze blew in his face and through his tangled hair.

He looked out onto the empty courtyard; the sky above was filled with moonlight, and the White Tree in front glimmered, its spring buds preparing to unfold. The sweet scent of flowers seemed to drift up from the streets below, and the mountains in the distance rose up into the night, tall and dark.

Suddenly, one of the guards behind Frodo flinched and muttered something in his sleep, and the halfling stepped out into the open air and closed the door quietly, wondering what would become of him if caught roaming the city at such a time. He shook his head firmly: nothing would become of him, of course – he was only helping the people of Minas Tirith by going after an intruder. Satisfied, and almost forgetting his purpose of his expedition, he looked away from the mountains and went to turn back to the doors, but what was this?

The halfling immediately turned his attention back to the Tree: and no, his eyes had not deceived him. What he had seen very vaguely, like a black image against the corner of his mind, was most definitely there.

Behind the great plant was a figure of a man, upright and tall, and he must have moved very quickly and caught Frodo's interest – a deep shallowly quick breath was coming from him, as if he had been running at a very quick pace. Two keen eyes glittered out at him from behind the boughs, and dark hair fell in strands before a noble, though pale, face. A cloak he wore: it was stained with long travel. Then suddenly the figure turned away, and stared up at the inky sky, a dog satisfied after sniffing mysterious guests.

The hobbit felt some curious feeling flood over him, and he took a step towards the man, who now seemed to wait for his approach. No word was spoken between them: no sound of breathing echoed throughout the courtyard. They were as quiet as the night itself: as still as the black mountains that loomed up in the East and West, but both as fearful of each other as the dreams of what was.

Frodo halted. He stood inches away from the figure, and they stood side-by-side, motionless, their gazes set on the Plains before them. The halfling moved his hand up to his pocket and traced the outline of the Ring he carried, his thoughts suddenly on the land within Mordor, with the mountain of ash and flame.

"Why did you come here?" the voice by his side broke the silence like rock through ice. The halfling looked to the man who had spoken, only to see that he was looking straight at him, a strange, familiar glitter encased within those grey eyes. No expression was on his face: no curiosity. It was as if he had said nothing at all.

"I do not know," replied Frodo, and he turned away quickly to the mountains in the East. He put his hand to his pocket and clutched the Ring within, realising that him replying was a mistake. But the man next to him just looked to the mountains, also, and said nothing.

It was only then, that the halfling was gazing out into the darkness of the East, that he saw it: a large cloud, black, but with a dark red colour to it, almost invisible to the untrained eye. Suddenly the man spoke:

"Should a hobbit be wandering the City at such a late hour?" he asked, and his tone was changed; it was stern.

"I came here for some air," replied Frodo.

"Were you not tired?" And the man looked at his smaller companion, and a slight smile played across his lips. "I saw you at the Feasting Hall yesterday: you looked tired then, and you told the King himself that you were hoping to sleep early. Why were you roused in the middle of the night?"

"I do not know what you mean."

The stranger laughed quietly, almost sneeringly, the sound echoing upon the empty plains. It was then that he seemed to flinch slightly, and moved very quickly, as if trying to hide something within the folds of his robes.

"You awoke to find your door open, didn't you? And then you decided to climb out of your bed and look for whoever may have been lurking in the corridors. You were chasing a man who has right to roam the halls at his will, Frodo. I do not believe he found being followed extremely entertaining."

And then, the halfling understood.

"It was you?"

"Does that seem surprising to you? He meant no harm; but you have always been wary of him. I do not blame you." He looked away from Frodo, and began humming to himself quietly. The hobbit stared at him, many thoughts penetrating his mind.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the man looked back and him, and smiled. "How is it you know my name?"

"Did Lord Aragorn not say who you were, three days ago? Yes, it was I with him on that day: the companion of old. Do not fear. He knows me well, and I know him well…" his voice seemed to trail off, echoing, holding no feeling or expression. He looked away from his companion and searched the plains with his eyes. Then he whispered something to himself, but it was too muffled for Frodo to hear. "But as for me, does my name play a role in your life? I think not. _Silence yourself!_"

The hobbit stared at him, bewildered. His companion looked back at him, and his eyes now held a slight worry to them.

"My apologies for startling you." And then he fell silent again for a while, and seemed to mutter something under his breath quietly. He turned back to the halfling. "Where is your friend, Samwise? It is not often that we should see one without the other. Have you had a brawl?" Something in his expression was familiar, but to Frodo his words had sparked a forgotten memory of someone very dear to him: his gardener.

"Sam and I," he began slowly, looking away with a frown, the very name sounding unknown under his tongue, "have not spoken for many a year, I am told."

The stranger nodded vaguely, and he stared down at his companion with a look of pity. Then he turned his gaze to the doors, and just as he was about to walk away, the halfling spoke again:

"It seems strange that you should know of him, when he was almost forgotten to me."

The man turned back to him. "And it is strange that I should know so much about you, Frodo, and your friend." He seemed to ponder over something for a second. "And, that skulking creature of yours."

Frodo's eyes widened.

"How do you know of him?" he asked, his voice suddenly seeming loud in the early morning air. "What…what do you know of him?"

The figure gave a curious, almost comforting smile, and again he went to walk away, as if his job with the hobbit had finished. But Frodo was prepared the second time. Quickly he grabbed the brown sleeve of the cloak and pulled the man towards him, and as he was wheeled around, the stranger's hood fell back.

And the hobbit looked upon the stranger that had plagued his mind for the last three days: he saw the pale face, the thin lips, the glittering eyes and the long dark hair that fell over his shoulders: here was the man who had changed his fortunes in the War of the Ring; the man who everyone had presumed dead. Here was Faramir, Prince of Ithillien and former Captain of Gondor.

"Well…?" he said; no anger was in his eyes, no expression upon his ashen face. "Has your curiosity been satisfied now?"

Slowly Frodo backed away, but a strange feeling held him there. Faramir continued, though a soothing tone had suddenly come to his voice.

"And you wondered how I knew so much about Samwise, and that skulking creature who stole my fish?" He laughed.

"But they said you were dead: they thought you were dead."

"And I thought you had gone into the West, but I do not question you. In fact, I ask nothing, and I trust you will do the same. Perhaps when the time comes, I will explain all to you; but now is not the time, nor the place."

"But if it was you I saw when those men brought me here, surely the King would know who you are?"

"Yes; he knows," said Faramir. "He has known since I arrived here myself, or how could I have brought tidings to him? But you and him are the only two with that knowledge. I will not risk everything I have left."

"Then I will comfort my worries," replied Frodo, and thoughts played on his mind: thoughts of their last meeting in Minas Tirith, and of his strange, recent past. He stared up at the man before him, and, suddenly, whether it was by a trick of the light or shadow, he realised how young he looked. Were there not small lines engraved in the Captain's skin last time, or an ageing look to his face? If so, they were not there now.

"Frodo I must leave," came his companion's voice, suddenly soothing and hushed in the early morning air. "I have business to attend to, and for you, it is time for sleeping. I would call you almost foolish for wandering the corridors this late. But, my thoughts are my own, and any punishment brought upon you is not for me to decide. I shall see you again tomorrow, but all I say to you now is: sleep well!" He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, and smiled down at him.

"Thank you, Lord Faramir!" said the halfling, feeling now at peace with the world around him. He had forgotten where he was for half a moment. "And I will ask no questions."

"Farewell!"

And then the man smiled and turned away, but as he did so it seemed the hidden thing in his arms slipped, and he jolted forwards suddenly to catch it. For a second Frodo saw a glimpse what he thought to be a small black globe, but the darkness of the night made it hard to see: and not three seconds later had the Captain recovered the object and hidden it again in the folds of his cloak. Pausing for a second, but without turning back, he strode away and vanished into the dismal shadows of early morning, no sound following his footsteps.

By some strange fortune, Frodo had little trouble in finding the guest bedroom again, but he was weary, and fell into a sleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow. He had a curious dream; he was at home in Bag End, and he was looking out into his garden, which was littered with weeds and overgrown. He was going to complain to someone: a gardener, perhaps – yes, that was it. He needed his gardener, but where was he?

But suddenly he was aware of something outside of his dream; he could hear someone breathing over his head; he could feel something pull lightly at his nightclothes. The halfling awoke. It was dark, but there was a dim grey filtering through the windows: the first light of dawn. And in that light Frodo saw what appeared to be the end of a cloak disappear through the doorway and into the passageway outside: the door was open again. He remembered no more.

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End file.
